Today my family attended a funeral. A family friend of ours lost
a battle with cancer. My brother and I grew up with the kids
while our parents bonded over tales of swim team at the 19th
hole. Ross was an incredible guy so it wasn't surprising when we
showed up to the viewing and the line stretched out rooms and down
hallways. There we stood trying to identify people our family
knew from decades past. Most of these individuals were my
parents' age and didn't recognize my brother or I in our
adulthood. In our boredom of waiting to pay our condolences, my
mother and I began to identify the bad face lifts and my brother began
a game of 20 questions. In grief, you look for distractions or
humor or both. One of our funniest moments is when a family
friend stopped my brother to ask who the "lovely lady" was with
him. As he turned shades of crimson, my brother flatly remarked,
"my sister." Ooh, yeah, what a great date idea! A viewing!
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Saturday, December 24, 2005
Holiday Spirit
Yesterday my Mom and I ran last minute errands for Christmas and
stopped to have lunch. We talked about what gifts we still need
to pick up, whos making what for which party, which dog is the culprit
for eating the christmas lights off the tree (whole bulb and wires
inluded), and what the wrapping status was on the presents.
Apparently the other night my parents were drinking their festive boxed wine and while my mother was choosing gift wrap, my father was stewing. The more tipsy they became the worse things got (no surprise here.) She was hoping that she actually gave the right present to the right recipient and actually as the night wore on she finally gave up on even signing their names, but resorted to their initials. While I snickered at this one imagining my cute female cousin opening up my brothers boxers, I didn't realize this was the best part.
My Dad was stewing (we like to call him Chuckles). Chuckles was downing the elegant chablis wine getting more and more upset about the neighbors. They went out of town for the holiday and in the meantime all the flowers/plants/gifts have been arriving at my parent's. The neighbor does not like the dogs barking and my father takes it personally although will not do anything to actively stop the noise. It got to the point where my Dad marched over in the night (or stumbled as the case may be) to take the delievery notices off the door and proceeded to unwrap the gifts at his house. Once my mother realized what was happening she scolded him and took the delievery notices back to their house and put it in their mailbox (no way to get them back) and attempted to put the bows back on things.
Ah, can you feel the love?
Apparently the other night my parents were drinking their festive boxed wine and while my mother was choosing gift wrap, my father was stewing. The more tipsy they became the worse things got (no surprise here.) She was hoping that she actually gave the right present to the right recipient and actually as the night wore on she finally gave up on even signing their names, but resorted to their initials. While I snickered at this one imagining my cute female cousin opening up my brothers boxers, I didn't realize this was the best part.
My Dad was stewing (we like to call him Chuckles). Chuckles was downing the elegant chablis wine getting more and more upset about the neighbors. They went out of town for the holiday and in the meantime all the flowers/plants/gifts have been arriving at my parent's. The neighbor does not like the dogs barking and my father takes it personally although will not do anything to actively stop the noise. It got to the point where my Dad marched over in the night (or stumbled as the case may be) to take the delievery notices off the door and proceeded to unwrap the gifts at his house. Once my mother realized what was happening she scolded him and took the delievery notices back to their house and put it in their mailbox (no way to get them back) and attempted to put the bows back on things.
Ah, can you feel the love?
Friday, December 23, 2005
The Perfect Gift
Have you ever found the perfect gift for someone? You know, the
experience where you cannot wait to give them the gift? You start
dancing around like you need to pee as they are attempting to untie the
ribbon and you are thinking, "Just cut the damn thing because you are
taking too long!" I found that gift.
One of my dearest friends has a passion for single malt scotch and women who drive stick shifts (how he and his wife now have automatics in their garage is beyond me.) Every quarter or so he dresses up in his kilt, shows educational videos on the different regions of Scotland, and cons our graphic designer from work to be the pourer for a high end Scotch for a fun fun tasting among friends.
When I first found the dessert plates with different old (perhaps made up) labels of Scotch on the faces, I knew I found THE gift. However, the pragmatic side of me left them at the store somehow convinced that I could find an equally wonderful gift without breaking the bank.
This is when my logic side is damned because I wandered the city for the next few weeks finding nothing that would compare and kept dwelling on why I didn't follow my gut in the first place and buy the plates to begin with!!! I went back and got the plates.
When he opened them this week I was estatic. He loved them. He had never seen them. He had them on display in his office (not really acceptable in Mormon Utah to have ceramics tooting the wonderfulness of liquor in the office). However, he could get away with it as he is the chaplain who is known for his off colored remarks and jovial passion about spirits made from peet.
The next day he came in letting me know that he thought the plates were too special to serve any food off of them. He was going to make a shelf and have them on display. I assumed this was at his house near his Scotch shrine, however I wouldn't be surprised if I found the plates between the life sized print of Rembrant's "Prodigal Son," and the photo of him with the Dali Lama in his office.
One of my dearest friends has a passion for single malt scotch and women who drive stick shifts (how he and his wife now have automatics in their garage is beyond me.) Every quarter or so he dresses up in his kilt, shows educational videos on the different regions of Scotland, and cons our graphic designer from work to be the pourer for a high end Scotch for a fun fun tasting among friends.
When I first found the dessert plates with different old (perhaps made up) labels of Scotch on the faces, I knew I found THE gift. However, the pragmatic side of me left them at the store somehow convinced that I could find an equally wonderful gift without breaking the bank.
This is when my logic side is damned because I wandered the city for the next few weeks finding nothing that would compare and kept dwelling on why I didn't follow my gut in the first place and buy the plates to begin with!!! I went back and got the plates.
When he opened them this week I was estatic. He loved them. He had never seen them. He had them on display in his office (not really acceptable in Mormon Utah to have ceramics tooting the wonderfulness of liquor in the office). However, he could get away with it as he is the chaplain who is known for his off colored remarks and jovial passion about spirits made from peet.
The next day he came in letting me know that he thought the plates were too special to serve any food off of them. He was going to make a shelf and have them on display. I assumed this was at his house near his Scotch shrine, however I wouldn't be surprised if I found the plates between the life sized print of Rembrant's "Prodigal Son," and the photo of him with the Dali Lama in his office.
Saturday, December 3, 2005
Postal Pressure
Its the time of year that friends and family send their yearly tidings
of joy via Mr. Postman complete with a stamp that has some trendy
artistic rendition of the season. My first card arrived
yesterday. Its actually one of the cards I really look forward to
every year. This family is just plain classy. Simple black
and white photographs and a printed message on thick paper and pretty
ribbon. I actually save this card every year and have a small
collection of them in a box downstairs.
I find that people send a variety of cards: There are the ones from your insurance agent who you don't know from Adam. The cards that seem cheap and rushed through. The family picture postcard (usually from my milkman inspiring guilt for me to leave a big holiday tip so he can feed all of the starving children his wife pumped out standing by the milk truck). The cards from your girlfriends who also scrawl their new boyfriend's name at the bottom, however you've never met the guy and seriously doubt he truly wants to send you "season's greetings with love." And then their are those who really come heart felt. They are the ones with personalized inscriptions that really capture your relationship to the sender, what they mean to you, and real wishes that there could be more time spent over coffee sharing lives.
I try to send cards every year, but I find that my numbers are dwindling as my inscription gets more lengthy. They are usually sent towards the end of the month only because I am a procrastinator. I have tried several methods of trying to keep on top of this holiday tradition: I have kept cards from years past and sent them cards the following years. I once read to write cards the afternoon of Turkey day, but this year I was busy baking tasteless rolls. Although none of these methods work for me, I still subscribe to "Real Simple" magazine for the helpful hints that may or may not get the ball rolling.
All in all, holiday cards are little gifts that arrive M-Sa from friends that mean more to me than any wrapped scarf or pair of earrings could ever give.
I find that people send a variety of cards: There are the ones from your insurance agent who you don't know from Adam. The cards that seem cheap and rushed through. The family picture postcard (usually from my milkman inspiring guilt for me to leave a big holiday tip so he can feed all of the starving children his wife pumped out standing by the milk truck). The cards from your girlfriends who also scrawl their new boyfriend's name at the bottom, however you've never met the guy and seriously doubt he truly wants to send you "season's greetings with love." And then their are those who really come heart felt. They are the ones with personalized inscriptions that really capture your relationship to the sender, what they mean to you, and real wishes that there could be more time spent over coffee sharing lives.
I try to send cards every year, but I find that my numbers are dwindling as my inscription gets more lengthy. They are usually sent towards the end of the month only because I am a procrastinator. I have tried several methods of trying to keep on top of this holiday tradition: I have kept cards from years past and sent them cards the following years. I once read to write cards the afternoon of Turkey day, but this year I was busy baking tasteless rolls. Although none of these methods work for me, I still subscribe to "Real Simple" magazine for the helpful hints that may or may not get the ball rolling.
All in all, holiday cards are little gifts that arrive M-Sa from friends that mean more to me than any wrapped scarf or pair of earrings could ever give.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
The Price of Happiness
One roll of papertowels shreaded while I was at work: $1.38
Four pairs of shoes chewed up: $250.00 (rough estimate)
Two bottles of "Natures Miracle" miracle solvent: $20.00
Toys that were supposed to be chewed instead of the shoes: $80.00
Gas to travel back and forth from work extra times: $60.00
Orchid chewed up because spanish moss is FUN!: $ unknown as it was a housewarming gift (sorry Aunt Liz!!)
One X-Pen to barricade the kitchen: $80.00 (returned as it didn't work, he's determined to sit in the window to look out)
Home Depot project of plywood, felt stickies, foam tape, and cinder blocks to replace the X-Pen: $40.00
Absolute glee when I come in the door, a cold nose, and a fuzzy body: Priceless
(I won't even begin to account for my Petco bill, adoption rescue fee, or food)
Four pairs of shoes chewed up: $250.00 (rough estimate)
Two bottles of "Natures Miracle" miracle solvent: $20.00
Toys that were supposed to be chewed instead of the shoes: $80.00
Gas to travel back and forth from work extra times: $60.00
Orchid chewed up because spanish moss is FUN!: $ unknown as it was a housewarming gift (sorry Aunt Liz!!)
One X-Pen to barricade the kitchen: $80.00 (returned as it didn't work, he's determined to sit in the window to look out)
Home Depot project of plywood, felt stickies, foam tape, and cinder blocks to replace the X-Pen: $40.00
Absolute glee when I come in the door, a cold nose, and a fuzzy body: Priceless
(I won't even begin to account for my Petco bill, adoption rescue fee, or food)
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Won't C'ya Be My Neighbor?
Let me first preface this entry by saying that I have some great
neighbors. They aren't the Wysteria
Lane-chaining-people-in-the-basement types. In fact I have almost
a "nice" war going on with one of them.
The ones to my west and I are in the who can do nice things for the other one first race. It currently is centered around the garbage cans. For the past 3 weeks it is a race to see who will take out both of our garbage cans and then bring them back in. For the record, I look like the sucky neighbor. Instead I have this really nice older gentleman in really poor health dragging my trash up and down my hill! Ok, so then I thought I would make him brownies or bread or something only to find out that he is diabetic plus has chronic pain and the meds he takes makes him lose his appetite. His grown adult son is so very proud of the new job he got he actually brought me one of his bonus's (it was free tickets to a home show, but still it was a big deal to him.) Yup, bottom line, I suck.
The neighbors to the east of me are a bunch of science geeks. All book smarts, practical smarts, ecological smarts, but not a lot of people smarts. These individuals bike uphill in the snow to preserve the ozone. They are also the ones responsible for getting me set up on the wireless goods. (Yea!) They also do projects simply to test their hypothesis if they can actually do it. Last spring the two guys got on top of my roof with their climbing gear to help clean out my gutters (they were securing themselves with harnesses from my chimney simply to improve their rock climbing skills simultaneously.)
Last weekend they decided to "build" a barbeque. This consisted of rocks, dirt, wood, and the grill off of one of their trucks they are constantly rebuilding. I didn't know this at the time and came home to my whole house smelling like a forest fire. Hello? Charcoal? Ever heard of it? I was furious (of course after it took me about 2 hours to figure out what it was, stop going outside to smell around the house, and turn off my swamp cooler). I poked my head over the fence and asked them to put the fire out. They did, but they also apologized I didn't get a proper invitation to come join the fun. The next day I found that my lovely aspen pads I so proudly replaced in the spring, are now permanently saturated with the smell of smoke. Its a good thing its fall. However, in all my sustained rage I marched over there to tell them again to not ever do that again and that they are welcome to use my BBQ from my porch anytime. They apologized profusely and asked if I wanted to see the wedding photos. So, yours truly (sans wedding gift or belated card) sat down to look at photos of their modest beautiful wedding at some National monument and feel like a horse's ass.
I figure by now, I'm on eternal garbage duty for both sides.
The ones to my west and I are in the who can do nice things for the other one first race. It currently is centered around the garbage cans. For the past 3 weeks it is a race to see who will take out both of our garbage cans and then bring them back in. For the record, I look like the sucky neighbor. Instead I have this really nice older gentleman in really poor health dragging my trash up and down my hill! Ok, so then I thought I would make him brownies or bread or something only to find out that he is diabetic plus has chronic pain and the meds he takes makes him lose his appetite. His grown adult son is so very proud of the new job he got he actually brought me one of his bonus's (it was free tickets to a home show, but still it was a big deal to him.) Yup, bottom line, I suck.
The neighbors to the east of me are a bunch of science geeks. All book smarts, practical smarts, ecological smarts, but not a lot of people smarts. These individuals bike uphill in the snow to preserve the ozone. They are also the ones responsible for getting me set up on the wireless goods. (Yea!) They also do projects simply to test their hypothesis if they can actually do it. Last spring the two guys got on top of my roof with their climbing gear to help clean out my gutters (they were securing themselves with harnesses from my chimney simply to improve their rock climbing skills simultaneously.)
Last weekend they decided to "build" a barbeque. This consisted of rocks, dirt, wood, and the grill off of one of their trucks they are constantly rebuilding. I didn't know this at the time and came home to my whole house smelling like a forest fire. Hello? Charcoal? Ever heard of it? I was furious (of course after it took me about 2 hours to figure out what it was, stop going outside to smell around the house, and turn off my swamp cooler). I poked my head over the fence and asked them to put the fire out. They did, but they also apologized I didn't get a proper invitation to come join the fun. The next day I found that my lovely aspen pads I so proudly replaced in the spring, are now permanently saturated with the smell of smoke. Its a good thing its fall. However, in all my sustained rage I marched over there to tell them again to not ever do that again and that they are welcome to use my BBQ from my porch anytime. They apologized profusely and asked if I wanted to see the wedding photos. So, yours truly (sans wedding gift or belated card) sat down to look at photos of their modest beautiful wedding at some National monument and feel like a horse's ass.
I figure by now, I'm on eternal garbage duty for both sides.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
I'm a Carrie, You're a Big
My boyfriend is addicted to "Sex and the City." He actually told
me tonight that he would have to call me once the episode was
over.
I actually have all 6 seasons on DVD. I tried to share my enthusiasm two years ago this Christmas. I was snowed in at his parent's house and brought my first season. His mother sat with us and actually watched the anal sex episode. Not a good time. I can't even tell you how many shades of crimson I turned. As I went off to work the next few days he apparently tried to understand my passion for the show. I would get messages like this:
"I can't believe you think guys are like this. There is no way."
"Are you kidding me?! These women treat these guys like crap! Please tell me these are not your role models."
He stopped watching after episode 3. This was ok for me. I was tired of trying to defend the analytical Carrie, the sexually charged Samatha, the idealistic romantic Charlotte, and the cynical playing the man's game Miranda. He was not the typical guy. So my explainations of, "But you see, you aren't the typical guy," didn't go very well. He could conceed to that point...kind of.
Almost a year later we embarked on the journey of exploring women celebrating their "fabulousness" in NY. It happened to coincide with the "fabulous" cable deal, "fabulous" new tv, "fabulous" re-runs of the first season a la The Girls, and the not-so-fabulous me being post-op at his place. Maybe he was taking pity on me, maybe he was pitching some serious woo, but whatever it was, we got to attempt to change his view.
Tonight I was told, "Season Two, episode 21 is on 'Old Dogs, New Dicks' is on! Charlotte is dating an uncircumsized guy, Miranda is dating Steve, and did I tell you how great Big is? He is a funny, cool guy. I mean, really, what is there not to like about him? And by the way, you are just as neurotic as Carrie, did you know that?"
Huh. I've created a monster. Last summer all the rage, according to CoJo was tee shirts that read, "I'm a Carrie," or "I'm a Samantha." Perhaps men will begin to embrace their guilty addictions of "Despirate Housewives" or "Sex and the City." Before you know it, there will be a fashion rage of guys wearing tee's saying things like, "I'm a Big."
Well, maybe not that phrase. I think women would read WAY too much into a tee shirt that had that phrase on it...
I actually have all 6 seasons on DVD. I tried to share my enthusiasm two years ago this Christmas. I was snowed in at his parent's house and brought my first season. His mother sat with us and actually watched the anal sex episode. Not a good time. I can't even tell you how many shades of crimson I turned. As I went off to work the next few days he apparently tried to understand my passion for the show. I would get messages like this:
"I can't believe you think guys are like this. There is no way."
"Are you kidding me?! These women treat these guys like crap! Please tell me these are not your role models."
He stopped watching after episode 3. This was ok for me. I was tired of trying to defend the analytical Carrie, the sexually charged Samatha, the idealistic romantic Charlotte, and the cynical playing the man's game Miranda. He was not the typical guy. So my explainations of, "But you see, you aren't the typical guy," didn't go very well. He could conceed to that point...kind of.
Almost a year later we embarked on the journey of exploring women celebrating their "fabulousness" in NY. It happened to coincide with the "fabulous" cable deal, "fabulous" new tv, "fabulous" re-runs of the first season a la The Girls, and the not-so-fabulous me being post-op at his place. Maybe he was taking pity on me, maybe he was pitching some serious woo, but whatever it was, we got to attempt to change his view.
Tonight I was told, "Season Two, episode 21 is on 'Old Dogs, New Dicks' is on! Charlotte is dating an uncircumsized guy, Miranda is dating Steve, and did I tell you how great Big is? He is a funny, cool guy. I mean, really, what is there not to like about him? And by the way, you are just as neurotic as Carrie, did you know that?"
Huh. I've created a monster. Last summer all the rage, according to CoJo was tee shirts that read, "I'm a Carrie," or "I'm a Samantha." Perhaps men will begin to embrace their guilty addictions of "Despirate Housewives" or "Sex and the City." Before you know it, there will be a fashion rage of guys wearing tee's saying things like, "I'm a Big."
Well, maybe not that phrase. I think women would read WAY too much into a tee shirt that had that phrase on it...
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